The Devil Next Door

Hansel thought he was crazy, no better than the rest. But he was tired, drained dry from what he’d seen. There was no fight left. He closed his eyes and let the darkness well up inside him until it spilled out of his eyes in ribbons of night. When he opened them, Huckabee was still squatting there.

Hansel grinned at him. The bloody pelt over his shoulder exuded a rank odor. It smelled delicious…

43

Swinging his nightstick by its thong, Warren moved up the streets flanked by Shaw and Kojozian. He stepped over the naked corpse of a woman and past a couple of dogs feeding out of an overturned garbage can. Across the way, a car had crashed into a fire hydrant and water was flooding the streets. Kojozian went down on his hands and knees and lapped water from the gutter.

“What are you? Some kind of goddamn animal?” Warren said to him, pointing his nightstick at the big man.

Shaw folded his arms and shook his head. “You hear that, Kojozian? He wants to know if you’re some kind of animal.”

Warren thumped Shaw on the back of the head with his stick. “What are you? An echo? He heard what I said. You heard what I said, didn’t you?”

Kojozian nodded, his face glistening wet, his streaked warpaint running some. “I heard you. I was just getting a drink is all.”

“Well, don’t be lapping like a dog,” Warren warned him. “Remember, you’re a cop. You’re wearing the uniform. You want to drink from a puddle, cup your hands; don’t lap.”

“I was thirsty.”

“Sure, he was just thirsty,” Shaw said.

Warren stopped. “You see these hash marks here?” he said, pointing to his sergeant’s stripes on his filthy uniform shirt. “These are experience. These say I’m in charge. And when I say a cop doesn’t lap water like a dog you better believe I know my business.”

They walked on, oblivious to the destruction and mayhem around them.

Yes sir, this was Warren’s town. He was a cop and he kept the peace. When you wore the uniform for a living, people expected things from you. Warren was unconcerned that his uniform was untucked, stained with blood and dirt, he only cared that his badge was shiny and his hat was on. Regulations. If a man didn’t live by the regulations, he lived by nothing.

He walked on.

The sun was sinking towards the horizon. It had been a fine day, Warren thought. A productive day. He looked up into the sky, noticing that a great many birds were circling above the town now…gulls, crows, ravens. A buzzard was perched atop a mailbox across the street. A flap of something was hanging from its beak.

They came upon the fleshy white corpse of an obese man out in the flooded street. A few more inches and he’d float away. A terrier with a blood-red snout was gnawing on his arm, a thin woman in a skirt and nothing else was chewing on his throat. Both seemed unconcerned that they were being watched.

Warren tipped his hat to her. “Evening, ma’am.”

She hissed at him.

Just ahead they paused. There was the sound of screaming. Warren looked at the other two. “Sounds like somebody’s having a party. We better break it up.”

They jogged to the end of the street, came around a corner and saw something which stopped them dead. Warren tapped his stick against his leg. Shaw patted his round belly and pulled the survival knife out of his Sam Browne belt. Kojozian, bare-chested, painted and wild-looking, bunched his blood-stained hands into fists and raised his haunches. A State Police cruiser was pulled up at the curb across the street. Two uniformed officers that Warren thought looked kind of familiar were kneeling on the concrete. They had knives in their hands. Carefully, grunting and exerting themselves, they were peeling the scalps from two corpses, sawing away happily.

“Of all the things,” Warren said. “Cops, Poaching in our territory.”

A fuzzy half-memory swept through the archaic ruins of his mind. Those men. He felt he knew those men. He could see them…around a fire, yes. Cooking trout in a pan. Drinking beer. A fishing trip. Yes, Warren had been on a fishing trip with these men. Ray Hansel and Paul Mackabee. Trooper Hansel. Trooper Mackabee. They were old friends of Warren’s. Both old hands on the state force. Warren knew them well. Drank with them. Fished with them. Jesus, Ray and Paul Then it was gone. He didn’t know who they were and cared even less. Poachers. Goddamn poachers.

He sighed. “Sonsofbitches,” he said.

“You seeing this, Kojozian?” Shaw said. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

The big man shook his head. “I’m seeing it, but I’m not believing it. I think somebody ought to go over there and remind those monkeys that this is our beat.”

“Well, why don’t you?” Warren said.

“You think I should?”

“I insist.”

“Yeah, I insist, too,” Shaw said. “Of all the things.”